


Two. Three. Five. Seven.

by On_Prozac



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: M/M, Suicide Attempts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:44:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4798337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/On_Prozac/pseuds/On_Prozac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>----------<br/>“Look, whatever you’re expecting me to do, I’m not gonna do it.” The other man speaks in a slow-pace voice, ”I don’t want to be a murderer.”<br/>Elliot closes his eyes.<br/>“But you already are.”<br/>----------<br/>Elliot asks Tyrell for something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two. Three. Five. Seven.

Two. Three. Five. Seven.

Prime numbers.

There is no formula so complex can calculate all the Prime numbers. No, even they can figure out how to prove infinitesimal equals to nonexistence, no, they can’t simply get the formula to calculate Prime numbers. They can, if they like, to debate over the concept of ‘integer’ or ‘odd numbers’, yet no matter how hard they tried, they won’t ever know what are all the prime numbers are. 

No, darling, they get stucked in only a relative small number. _2 24036583minus one. _

No, darling, No matter how those smart mathematicians work, the formula doesn’t apply.

Prime numbers are alone. They’re wicked, twisted, disturbing monsters who can ruin your elementary school experience, even though math has always been his favorite subject at school.

He feels like a Prime number among people, the subtle complexity and loneliness. Yes, he is a Prime number, with 1 and himself as his Schizobulia identity. 

.

_ This is all pointless.  _ Elliot thought as he steps on another stair, he tried to be as quiet as possible, yet the old wooden floors made a cracking sound under him. _But I can’t stand this anymore. It has to end._

_ Now. _

It took him two months to find out where Tyrell lives after his sudden disappearance. Two months of self-destruction. He vaguely remembers the nights he sat alone staring at his computer screen, searching through webs of data and figures.

_ /It is because of morphine. I’ve taken too much **MORPHINE** in the past two months. I should go back now. And In the morning I will regain conscious and forget about all this./ _

Yet he can’t bear his it any longer, the Schizobulia and self-inconsistency, the drug addiction, and the feeling of loneliness above all. **He has to do this.**

_ /It will be easy. You just knock the door get inside. The rest will be easy. / _

He came closer to the door and subconsciously breathed in a little. His nostrils are filled with the smell of rotten iron. _The air here is wet._ He realized and entertained himself with it. _A pround, pround man like Tyrell living in a cheap apartment on the suburb of the city. What a contrast._ So it’s the money issue then.

No. There is so much more. He didn’t go back to his wife, even he can only if he wanted to…

_ /What makes you think he will agree?/ _

Elliot knocked the door.

_ This is madness. _

And again.

_ This is madness. _

And again.

_ This is madness. _

_ This is the cure, more effective than any of the medicine Krista has ever given to him. _

Just as he is to press his ear to the door, it opens up from inside. There he is, stand right in front of him, the man he is looking for. Though there is obviously a look of doldrums on him. _Tyrell had been drinking, and he stay up late._ The scent of wine and black bags under his eye has proven that. Though he still wears a light blue shirt, it’s not clean as he used to. Elliot blinks his eye.

“Um, Can I help you?” The man speaks up, hands still on the doorknob. There is not a single hint of surprise on his face. _So he knows too. He knows that I gonna find him. Is it because of the other identity? The man who calls himself Mr. Robot. Father. Mr.Robot. Me._

“Yeah, uh, yeah. May I get inside please?”

Tyrell step back to let him enter. Though the room is relatively small , at least it’s neat and clean. The books on the table are piled up, and the bed is covered with a purple counterpane. _Tyrell Wellick is a perfectionist. And that’s what’s he is looking for-_

_._

**_An Flawless+Assisted suicide. Death._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

“So I guess you already know why I left.”

“Yeah.”

A thin smile passed from Tyrell’s face, “I kept your little secret, of course. You see, I’m being honest with you. I’ve lost my wife and my newborn child and I have nothing could offer now,” He pulls the chair from the dining table and gestures Elliot to sit down. “What’s you here for? Guessing you’d figure out your problems with Schizobulia? Or is it because you missed me? ” He chuckled with slightly contempt at the last sentence.

“Hum…”

Tyrell put a glass of water in front of him. “Say something.”

“Yeah?”

“Why you’re here?”

It took Elliot five seconds to figure out what the other man is saying. He can feel blood impulses crushing his temple, made him hard to focus. Side effect of drug addiction. Sometimes he would response to a question days after it was being asked. _I’m a crazy sick fuck. Disgusting._

But this time he did hear the question. He looks up slowly to the man standing beside him, “…I feel bad.”

A pause. _This is all ridiculous. I could do this myself_. Yet.

“Can’t go on. ”He sees the man smiles,”You know. All these…issues and stuff. The only girlfriend I’ve ever had died months ago, my sister doesn’t trust me and my best friend hates me. The company I work is on the verge of collapsing. This is all my life about.”

As if his misery has delighted Tyrell, that man seems satisfied hearing that, and he obviously doesn’t tried to cover it up“Well then” He speaks, voice cracking ”What can I do for you”

_Ah. Here we are._

Elliot slip his hand into his pocket. A loaded gun. He’s been keeping it under his bed for a while now, always knowing (unconsciously) that he is gonna use it someday. He always knows such things.

“You know, some people, ” he hears himself talking, while on the mean time he is trying to figure out how many books are there on the table. “Some old emperors of Egypt. Pharaohs. They spent years to plan their funerals. Need to get everything in its place. To them, death is a…completion, yes. A completion. I remember when I was young I saw a man jumped out from third floor window and died. His head somehow strangely hit the ground first. Blood went all over the ground. I don’t want to die like that, incomplete, destructed.” He takes a breath. _Now_ _ let’s see the expression on your face. _ His fingers ligers on the smooth curve of the gun. _Take it out._

** “Kill me.” **

“What? Pardon me, I don’t think-”

“Kill me please.”

The look on Tyrell’s face didn’t surprise him. The perfect example of utter disbelief, but there is something wrong with it. Elliot knows. He can sense that in the air. He put the gun on the table.

“Look, whatever you’re expecting me to do, I’m not gonna do it.” The other man speaks in a slow-pace voice, ”I don’t want to be a murderer.” 

Elliot closes his eyes.

“But you already are.”

_ One. Two. Three.  _

Tyrell smiles. 

_ Strange. _ He thought he would punch him on the face or something. And it reminds Elliot of -

“Here is it. That look. Again. I can feel it, you’ve been hiding your true self, just like me. And you ENJOY IT. You enjoy killing. Your last crime was not an accident, it’s…I know you would kill me. ”

“It’s what?” Tyrell turns his back, the light behind him created a monstrous shadow on the floor.

_ A monster. You can call it antisocial personality, but in truth he is a monster. _

“You can’t control yourself. The desire. The feeling of being in **POWER**. This is why you killed that poor woman. And this the the reason of why you didn’t go back to your wife. No, it’s not because the police and stuff. No. it’s because you don’t want to. She makes you feel you humiliated and-”

“Stop.”

“-and…and-”

“I said stop.”

_ A _ _slap_. 

“…and weak.”

Another slap. On his face. _Pain._

“You will not refuse me. Kill me now.” He passed the gun toward Tyrell, his left face hurts. _Should I feel sad for myself?_ No, in truth he doesn’t feel sad at all, _Physical pain ends depression._ He longs for it, for an _end_.

“You enjoy this.” 

_ Wrong.  _ “Everything is better than this miserable life of mine. Nobody will even remember me after I’m dead. ”

“Why me then? Why you want me to do this instead of others. You’ve got enemies outside who is more than happy to give you a swift shot through the head.”

Elliot remembers vaguely from his middle school literature class. He feels like he is the man inPoe’s horror story, slowly drifting to a void. _Soon. Now. NOW. NOW!_

“Maybe because you’re the only _friend_ who would eagerly kill me instead sending me to a psychiatrist. I’m sick of them. And I miss you. ”

Tyrell turns his head and gives him a genuine smile; something has disappeared from his face. Elliot feels he is back to that night when he took Tyrell to the arcade. He can sense it. **“Good.”** The man murmurs. ”Then beg me. ”

_ Beg him. I know he would say that. Beg. _

“No.”

“No?” The man stand in front of him lift a hand and cupped his jaw ”That’s quite…impolite. Didn’t your father taught you when you ask for someone’s favor you should also return something? Hmm? ” Tyrell takes the gun and tosses it on the floor like an unwanted toy.

_ /This is wrong. I shouldn’t have come here. I’ve made a mistake. How hilarious./ _

“…yeah.”

“Then be a good boy and beg.”

Elliot closes his eye. _1 st rule of manipulating people: Say what they want to hear._ “…Please? Please…Kill me.”

The hand on his jaw moves slowly toward his neck. _Oh._

“Fine.” At last he says.

.

.

Two. Three. Five. Seven. 

“Are you afraid?”

“A little.”

“I’m not gonna use the gun.”

“yeah.”

Prime numbers are alone. And they’re not gentle at all.

.

.

Choking.

Elliot realized as the man puts on a pair of pale blue gloves that smells of hospital. He doesn’t mind that, he knows Tyrell has some issue over cleanness. But he never thought he would die suffocating.

_ So this is it. My end. I’m dying. _

“Well…”Elliot says as the man tries to drag him to the sofa and pulls him down, “This feel werid.” No, this isn’t how he imagined-

He feels Tyrell was on him, _Wine._ _Cologne. Laundry detergent._ And he vaguely remembers the last time he has taken a shower. 

“Like this?” Tyrell’s hands move up to his neck. It’s hard to see what’s on his face, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.

_ Feels like really living for myself. Just this moment. Oh god. God. God. Take a breath. _

“Do it, now- ”His voice cracked.

Tyrell lowered himself. He is so close, Elliot can feel his breath- ** _BURNING._**

_ “…I missed you.” _ The man on him presses his hands down with force, pinching his throat, and Elliot shut his eyes. _I’m Dying. I’m Dying. I’m DYING. I’M FUCKING DYING AND EVERYTHING FEELS SO DAMN…_

…Good

He’s right.

_ And I missed you too.  _ Elliot wants to say. He wants to say a lot of things suddenly. _This is too swift for me._ He feels the hands on him tightened, he struggles unconsciously.

“Don’t fight back.”

No. He can’t. Everything is HURTING. He can no longer control himself. The loneliness, the deep down depression, the self-inconsistency. Elliot knows after he dies the cop will probably begin to search for him, they’ll discover all his little secrets he’s been hiding. But it doesn’t matter now. Oh. It hurts. It hurts so much.

And that’s when he feels the cold lips touched his.

_ Oh. _

Elliot feels something has cracked inside him.

It starts all of a sudden, breaking down. Not only just physically. Everything build up the fortress of his body is falling. In the corner of mind he imaged his skin crawling off, piece by piece and inch by inch, like ripping off the corrugate wall paper. Until he becomes a ghost of a shadow. Until he becomes nothing. Until he becomes a prime number. Pure and complete. He feels...

_ Clean. _

He is a prime number.

“Thank you, Elliot.” Tyrell murmurs at last.

.

.

_ Two. Three. Five. Seven. _

__

__

**Author's Note:**

> Okay...I know this is trash and this is my first time ever write a fanfiction, and English is not my native language. So be gentle pls.


End file.
